Chapter 15 Lila #2
I sit on the edge of the bed and press my palms flat against the mattress, trying to think in straight lines.
Timing flashes through my head whether I invite it or not.
Ethan. The intensity. The way my body responded without hesitation.
All the times I used a preventive measure before and afterward, but there’s always a risk.
I swallow hard.
“Okay,” I say out loud, and my voice sounds steadier than I feel. “Okay.”
I don’t spiral. I don’t sit there imagining outcomes or consequences. I do what I’ve always done when things go sideways.
I act.
I grab my bag, shove my wallet and keys inside, and leave the apartment again without bothering to change clothes. The pharmacy on the corner is bright and aggressively calm, the kind of place that pretends everything is manageable if you buy the right product.
I walk straight to the aisle without hesitating, which tells me I already know what I’m doing.
The boxes blur together for a second. Different brands. Different promises. Early detection. Digital. Non-digital. Pink lines. Words. I grab one at random, then stop and put it back, then grab a different one that looks simpler, more direct.
I don’t need bells and whistles. I need an answer.
At the register, I avoid the cashier’s eyes out of habit, even though she couldn’t possibly know what this means to me. The bag feels too light in my hand when I leave.
The walk home is worse.
Every sensation feels louder. The street noise grates. The smell of food from a nearby restaurant makes my stomach roll again. I keep my pace steady and my head down, reminding myself that I don’t know anything yet, and knowing is the only thing that matters right now.
My phone buzzes again.
Ethan.
Then a message.
Ethan: I’m not trying to crowd you. I just need to know you’re safe.
I don’t answer, even though my heart is breaking for him and us. If what I’m suspecting is true, I need to go before my ex can catch up with us.
I unlock my door, step inside, and lock it behind me with care. The apartment is quiet. I set the pharmacy bag on the counter and stare at it like it might change shape if I wait long enough.
My hands shake as I pull the box out.
I don’t open it yet.
I lean back against the counter, close my eyes, and let myself feel the weight of the moment settle into my bones. Whatever comes next is going to change things. I know that with a certainty that has nothing to do with fear.
Finally, I open my eyes, pick up the box, and walk toward the bathroom.
I sit on the closed toilet lid and read the instructions twice, then a third time slower, not out of confusion but out of a need to stay anchored to something procedural.
Step one. Step two. Timing matters. Results window matters. Everything else can wait.
The bathroom light feels too bright, so I turn it down and leave the door half open. I don’t want to feel boxed in. I don’t want to feel like I’m hiding, even though that’s exactly what I’m doing.
I take the test out of the packaging and set it on the counter, lining it up parallel to the edge like order might calm me. My phone buzzes again in the other room. I ignore it without checking the screen.
I follow the steps. I wash my hands first, which isn’t required but feels right. I breathe through my nose and focus on the mechanics of it, the way I always do when emotions start climbing faster than my brain can keep up.
When I’m done, I cap the test and set it face down on the counter, just like the instructions say. I set a timer on my phone for three minutes, then immediately regret it and flip the phone screen-down again so I don’t watch the seconds tick by.
Three minutes is nothing.
Three minutes is everything.
I perch on the edge of the tub and press my palms flat against the porcelain, grounding myself in the cold. My foot taps once then stills when I notice it happening. I don’t pace. I don’t cry. I don’t spiral into a list of outcomes.
I think about practical things instead.
Timing. Calendar math. The pharmacy receipt still in my pocket. The fact that I threw up earlier and wrote it off as stress. The way my body has felt slightly off for days, not sick, just unfamiliar.
My stomach flips again, and I swallow hard.
I tell myself I’m being dramatic. I tell myself I’ve been wrong before. I tell myself this is just a data point, not a verdict.
The timer goes off.
The sound is too loud in the small space. I reach for the phone and shut it off immediately, then sit there for a beat longer than necessary, staring at the counter like it might rearrange itself if I give it time.
I stand slowly.
I pick up the test.
I turn it over.
For a split second, my brain refuses to process what I’m seeing. It’s just shapes. Color. Lines that don’t mean anything until they do.
Then it clicks.
Positive.
My breath leaves my body in one sharp rush, and I have to grab the counter to stay upright. The room doesn’t spin, but something inside me does, a quiet, internal shift that rearranges everything without asking.
I stare at the result longer than I need to, like it might change if I look hard enough. It doesn’t. It stays exactly the same.
Positive.
I lower myself back onto the toilet lid and sit there with the test in my hand, my thumb pressed against the plastic casing like it’s the only solid thing left in the room. My thoughts scatter, regroup, then scatter again.
Ethan flashes through my mind without warning. His hands. His voice. The intensity he carries like it’s second nature. The way he looks at me when he thinks I’m choosing him.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
This changes everything.
Not in a vague, future sense. Not in a theoretical way. It changes today. It changes tomorrow. It changes the rules I thought I was operating under.
My phone buzzes again, closer this time. I know without looking that it’s him.
I don’t move.
I sit there in the quiet bathroom, test still in my hand, heart pounding too fast and too slow all at once, and I understand with sudden clarity that whatever happens next is going to force decisions I am not ready to make.
I open my eyes and look at the test again.
It’s still positive.